[At least Lyra has more manners, even if her smile is faint when you find her; likely somewhere near the pond, a fishing rod in hand, the line gently strung across the top of the water. She sits atop an old, gnarled tree that's long fallen over.]

The fish are biting today. But they're always biting, so sometimes I wonder: what's the fun in that?

[She laughs, and it's an ethereal sound, made to draw you in.

(Still, she's harmless enough. Probably.)]

If you're here to see the fireworks, you have to wait until it's nighttime.

[Her looks seems to ask: Are you even staying that long?]